Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, November 14, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.



November 14th, 1891.



LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. VI.--TO VANITY.


DEAR VANITY,

I think I can see you smirking and posturing before the abstract mirror,
which is your constant companion. It pleases you, no doubt, to think that
anybody should pay you the compliment of making you the object and the
subject of a whole letter. Perhaps when you have read it to the end you
will alter your mood, since it cannot please you to listen to the truth
about yourself. None of those whom you infect here below ever did like it.
Sometimes, to be sure, it had to be endured with many grimaces, but it was
extraordinary to note how the clouds caused by the aggravated truth-teller
passed away as soon as his departure had enabled the object of these
reproaches to recover his or her false self again. What boots it, after
all, to tell the truth? For those whom you protect are clad in armour,
which is proof against the sharpest lance, and they can thus bid defiance
to all the clumsy attacks of the merely honest and downright--for a time;
but in the end their punishment comes, not always in the manner that their
friends predict, but none the less inevitable in one manner or another. For
they all fashion a ridiculous monster out of affectations, strivings and
falsehoods, and label it "Myself;" and in the end the monster takes breath,
and lives and crushes his despised maker, and immediately vanishes into
space.

Permit me to proceed in my usual way, and to offer you an example or two.
And I begin with HERMIONE MAYBLOOM. HERMIONE was one of a large family of
delightful daughters. Their father was the well-known Dr. MAYBLOOM, who was
Dean of Archester Cathedral. His massive and convincing volumes on _The
Fauna and Flora of the Mosaic Books in their Relation to Modern Botanical
Investigation_, must be within your recollection. It was followed, you
remember, by _The Dean's Duty_, which, being published at a time when there
was, so to speak, a boom in religious novels, was ordered by many readers
under the impression that it was likely to upset their mature religious
convictions by its assaults on orthodoxy. Their disappointment when two
stout tomes, dealing historically with the _status_ and duties of Deans,
were delivered to them, was the theme of cheerful comment amongst the
light-hearted members of the Dean's own family.

[Illustration]

Was there ever in this world so delightful a family circle as that of the
Deanery? The daughters were all pretty, but that was their smallest merit.
They were all clever, and well-read, without a tinge of the bluestocking,
and most of them were musical to the tips of their slender fingers. How
merrily their laughter used to ring across the ancient close, and how
playfully and gently they used to rally the dear learned old Dean who had
watched over them and cared for them since Mrs. MAYBLOOM'S death, many
years before, with all the tender care of the most devoted mother. And of
this fair and smiling throng, "my only rosary," as the Dean used to call
them, HERMIONE was, I think, the prettiest, as she was certainly the most
accomplished. Every kind of gift had been showered upon her by Nature. When
she played her violin, accompanied by her elder sister on the piano, tears
trickled unbidden down the aquiline nose of the militant Bishop of
Archester, the chapter stood hushed to a man, and the surrounding curates
were only prevented by a salutary fear of ruining their chances of
preferment from laying themselves, their pittances, and their garnered
store of slippers at her pretty feet. Then in a fit of charming petulance,
she would break off in the middle of the piece, lay down her violin, and,
with a pretty imperiousness, command a younger sister to fetch her zither,
on which to complete the subjugation of her adorers. And then her
caricatures--summer-lightning flashes of pencilled wit, as I heard the
Reverend SIMEON COPE describe them in a moment of enthusiasm after she had
shown us her sketch of his rival, the Reverend STEPHEN HANKINSON.

But even in those days, while she still had about her all the fascinations
of peerless beauty and fresh and glowing youth, I mistrusted her. Alone of
all the sisters she seemed to me to be wanting in heart. I heard her
several times attempt to snub her father, and once I noted how she spent a
whole evening in moody silence, and refused to play a note, for no other
reason that I could see except that Captain ARBLAST, of the 30th Lancers,
the dashing first-born of the Bishop, who happened to be spending a few
days of his long leave in Archester, devoted himself with all the assiduity
of his military nature to twirling his heavy moustache in the immediate
neighbourhood of SOPHY MAYBLOOM, and not in that of HERMIONE. Indeed, I
have reason to know that, after the guests had departed, poor SOPHY had to
endure from her sister a dreadful scene, the harsh details of which have
not yet faded from her memory. And then I remembered, too, how it was a
matter of family chaff against HERMIONE that once, not very long after she
had entered upon her teens, she had sobbed convulsively through a whole
night, because she had discovered that her juvenile arms were thin and
mottled, and she imagined that she would never be able to wear a low dress,
or shine in Society.

Such, then, was the beautiful HERMIONE, who for some years rode rough-shod
over the hearts of all the males in Archester. Space fails me to enumerate
all her engagements. She broke them one after another without a thought,
and cast her admirers away as if they had been dresses of last year's
fashion. Most of them, it must be said, recovered quickly enough, but the
miserable COPE became a hopeless hypochondriac, and never smiled again. He
died the other day, and HERMIONE's sketch of HANKINSON was found, frayed
and soiled, in an ancient pocket-book which he always carried about with
him. HANKINSON'S fate seemed at first to be worse. He took to poetry,
morbid, passionate, yearning, unhealthy poetry, of the skimmed SWINBURNE
variety, and for a time was gloomy enough. Having, however, engaged in a
paper conflict with one of his critics, he forgot his sorrows, and though
he still declares an overwhelming desire for death and oblivion about six
times a year, in various magazines, he seemed, when I last saw him, fairly
comfortable and happy. But, of course, he has never secured a vicarage.

To return to HERMIONE. She at last married a certain Mr. PARDOE, a
barrister practising on the Archester Circuit, and established herself in
town. Shortly afterwards she became the rage. Her beauty, her wit, her
music, her dinners, her diamonds, were spoken of with enthusiasm. All the
elderly _roués_, whose leathery hearts had been offered up at hundreds of
shrines, became her temporary slaves. She coaxed them, cajoled them, and
fooled them, did this innocent daughter of a simple-minded Dean, to the top
of their various bents. She schemed successfully against countless rivals,
in order to maintain her pre-eminence in the admiration of her circle. Her
ambition knew no bounds. She changed her so-called friends every week; she
cultivated grand passions for actors, authors, musicians, and even for
professors. Sometimes she played to select audiences with all her old
ravishing skill, but this happened more and more rarely, until at last she
utterly declined, and even went so far as to flout H.S.H. the Duke of
KALBSKOPF, who had been specially invited to meet her.

Then suddenly came the crash. She left her husband, in company with CHARLIE
FITZHUBERT, the heir presumptive to the wealthy earldom of Battersea. On
the following day Mr. PARDOE blew out his brains, leaving ten thousand
pounds of debt and three young children. Six months afterwards the
venerable Dean died, and sentimental people spoke of a broken heart. Then
the Earl of BATTERSEA, in a fit of indignation, married, and was blessed
with a son, the present Earl. CHARLIE FITZHUBERT married HERMIONE, but they
are as poor as curates, and he hates her. I saw her two days ago in a
shabby hired carriage. She is getting prematurely old, and grey, and
wrinkled, and everybody avoids her, except her sister SOPHY, who still
visits her, and suffers her ill-humour.

Charming story, isn't it? I shall write again soon.

Yours, in the meantime,
DIOGENES ROBINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

NIGHT-MAILING.--"Night Mail between London and Paris" has been recently
announced in all the papers as now ready and willing to take night-mailers
from Victoria, L.C. & D., to the French Capital. It is to be a Third-class
Night Mail, though a Knight of the First Class can, of course, travel by it
should he be so disposed. Thirty shillings through fare for "a single;" but
as the tariff doesn't explicitly inform us whether the passenger will be
asked the question, "Married or single?" and so be charged accordingly, we
may presume that a margin is left for a little surprise. The train of Night
Mails--a kind of gay bachelor train, no females being of the party--is to
start at 8:15 P.M., and to be in Paris at 5:50 A.M.

       *       *       *       *       *

DRAWING THE BADGER.

(_A Natural History Note_.)

[Illustration]

The Badger (_Meles-Taxus_) is at once one of the most inoffensive and (in
one sense) offensive of our few remaining British Carnivora. He is
described by NAPIER of Merchiston, in his _Book of Nature and of Man_, as a
"quiet nocturnal beast, but if much 'badgered' becoming obstinate, and
fighting to the last, in which it is a type of a large class of Britons,
who like to be let alone, but when ill used can fight."

That great new authority on Natural History, Mr. G.A. HENTY (author of
_Those Other Animals_), should be able to tell us much about the Badger.
Therewith he would be able, in his own favourite fashion, to "point a
moral" (against the Demogorgon Democracy), and "adorn a tale" (of laboured
waggery). He might find the subject as suggestive of sardonic chaff as
American women and Republican institutions.

What says the popular WOOD? He describes the Badger as "slow and clumsy in
its actions," and as "rolling along so awkwardly that it may easily be
mistaken for a young pig in the dusk of the evening." Woe, however, to
whomsoever _does_ take the creature for "a young pig." "Being naturally as
harmless an animal as can be imagined, it is a terrible antagonist when
provoked to use the means of defence with which it is so well provided."

  We tax the patience of poor _Meles-Taxus_,
  Until he turns with tooth and claws and whacks us.
  The natural home of _Taxus_--the Exchequer--
  Harbours a creature that keeps up its pecker.

"For the purpose of so-called 'sport,' the Badger used to be captured and
put into a cage ready to be tormented; at the cruel will of every ruffian
who might chose to risk his dog against the sharp teeth of the captive
animal."

This particular sort of "sport" is a little out of date. But "drawing a
Badger" is not unknown even in these humanitarian days. Dogs will sometimes
voluntarily rush in to risk their hides and muzzles against the aforesaid
sharp teeth, &c. Look at those in the picture!

The two small, if aggressive, terriers seem unequally matched against the
"clumsy" but strong-jawed and terribly-toothed Badger. They have drawn him,
indeed, out of his hole, and one of them, at least, seems rather sorry for
it, if you may judge by the way in which he turns tail and makes for his
protector, the big Bull-Terrier. The ventripotent broken-haired tyke looks
more valorous--for the moment. Yap! yap! yap! _Meles-Taxus_ takes little
notice of him, however. His eyes are on that sturdy specimen of _Canis
familiaris_ there, whose bold eyes in turn are on _him_. Both, perhaps,
experience--

  That stern joy which warriors feel
  In foemen worthy of their steel."

"Drawn by those two tiny yelpers? Not a bit of it! But _you_, my complacent
canine Colossus--come on if you dare!" And he _does_ dare, evidently.
Whether he'll regret his daring remains to be seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Memory of Milton.

  MILTON forgotten? Nay, my BESANT, nay;
  Not wholly, even in this petty day,
  When learning snips, when criticism snaps,
  And the great bulk of readers feed on scraps.
  Still, still he finds his "audience fit, though few,"
  The rest _forget_ not since they never knew.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Off-Portsmouth Phrase-Book.

Have you caught a fish?

No, but I have bagged a cannon-ball.

Is the sea too rough for your boat?

No, the sea is not too rough, but the Torpedoes are decidedly embarrassing.

Is that a pretty shell that you are going to carry home to your children?

No, it is a live one, that, if it bursts a yard nearer, will blow us into
smithereens.

Do you propose returning to your lodging to-night?

That is a matter that will be decided by the Commander of the nearest
practising gun-boat.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE RESULT OF TOO MUCH GREEK.

_First Classic_. "BY THE WAY, HADN'T DANTE GOT ANOTHER NAME?"

_Second Classic_. "YES; ALFIERI, I THINK--OR ELSE ALIGHIERI."

_First Classic_. "AH, PERHAPS YOU'RE RIGHT. I HAD A NOTION IT WAS GABRIEL
ROSSETTI, OR SOMETHING!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CUTTING REMARKS.

[Illustration: Tied to Time.]

Mr. HENRY AUTHOR JONES has taken a theatre wherein to play his own plays to
his own taste. On the first night of _The Crusaders_ this taste was not
exactly the taste of the audience. Mr. HENRY AUTHOR JONES seemed to object
to be tied to time, and the result was the prompt appearance of that
terrible conqueror of things terrestrial, General Boredom. Since the
initial performance, it is reported that matters have gone on more
smoothly. According to the "usual sources of information" the dramatist has
been cheered on leaving his theatre, and heartily congratulated. On one
occasion he actually supplemented his piece with a speech! Apparently he
was under the impression that there could not be too much of a good
thing--JONES for choice! It may be that since the first performance, there
has been some curtailment made in the play. To judge from appearances it
was a question of cutting--either the author the play, or the public the
theatre!

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE A NEW SPEC.--We have just received a prospectus of a Company entitled
"_The Monarch Insurance Society_." Of course, all the Crowned Heads of
Europe will be in it. We haven't yet read it, the title being sufficient
for the present. _Ça donne à penser_. Will it provide New Monarchs for old
ones? Will it give good sovereigns in exchange for bad ones? If so--where
will the profit come in?

       *       *       *       *       *

FRENCH AS SHE IS "WRIT."

The _Standard's_ own Vienna Correspondent, when reporting the unpleasant
incident in the life of the Duc d'ORLÉANS, told us how the Prince, on
unwittingly "accepting service," said to the astute lawyer's clerk, "Mais,
Monsieur, ce n'est pas le moment." To which the clerk replied, "also in
French," says the _Standard_, "One time is as good as another." But why was
not the lawyer's clerk's French as she is spoke given as well as that of M.
le Duc? And how much more telling it would have been had M. le Duc been
served well and faithfully by a clerk like _Perker's Mr. Lowten_, fresh,
very fresh, from a carouse at the "Magpie and Stump," or even by one of
_Messrs. Dodson and Fog's_ young men who enjoyed themselves so much when "a
twigging" of the virtuous _Mr. Pickwick_.

"Mais, Monsieur, ce n'est pas le moment," says the Duke, to which our _Mr.
Lowten_ would have replied in Magpie-and-Stumping French, "Eggskewsy moy,
Mossoo, le Dook, ung Tom is aussy bong qu'ung autre. Mossoo ler Dook ar
maintenong pérusé ler documong; voici le copy et voilà two. Bonsoir, il
faut que je l'accroche."

Whereupon he would have "hooked it," as it appears this particular lawyer's
clerk did, and was not seen again. No doubt he joined a circle of admiring
friends in the legal neighbourhood (some Magpies-and-Stumps still exist),
where, over a glass and a cigar, he recounted the merry tale of how he had
served a Duke.

       *       *       *       *       *

The relation of Hypnotiser to the Hypnotised at the Aquarium may be simply
described as "GERMANE to the subject.'

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG AND CHORUS FOR THE COUNTY COUNCIL ON NEXT DEBATE ON THE WATER
SUPPLY--"Young BENN he was a nice young man."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

No. XIV.

SCENE--_Gardens belonging to the Hôtel du Parc, Lugano. Time, afternoon;
the orchestra is tuning up in a kiosk._ CULCHARD _is seated on a bench in
the shade, keeping an anxious eye upon the opposite door._

_Culch._ (_to himself_). She said she had a headache, and made her father
and VAN BOODELER go out on the lake without her. But she certainly gave me
to understand that she might come out when the band played, if she felt
better. The question is, whether she _means_ to feel better or not. She is
the most tantalising girl! _I_ don't know what to make of her. Not a single
reference, as yet, to that last talk we had at Bingen. I must see if I
can't recall it to her memory--if she comes. I'll wait here, on the chance
of it--we are not likely to be dis--. Confound it all--PODBURY! (_with
suppressed irritation as_ PODBURY _comes up_). Well, do you _want_ anything
in particular?

_Podb._ (_cheerfully, as he sits down_). Only the pleasure of your society,
old chap. How nicely you do put things!

_Culch._ The--er--fact is, I can't promise to be a particularly lively
companion just now.

_Podb._ Not by way of a change? Ah, well, it's a pity--but I must put up
with you as you are, I suppose. You see--(_with a grin_)--I've got that vow
to work out.

_Culch._ Possibly--but _I_ haven't. As I've already told you--I retire.

_Podb._ Wobbled back to Miss TROTTER again, eh? Matter of taste, of course,
but, for my part, I think your _first_ impression of her was nearer the
truth--she's not what I call a highly cultivated sort of girl, y' know.

_Culch._ You are naturally exacting on that point, but have the goodness to
leave my first impressions alone, and--er--frankly, PODBURY, I see no
necessity (_now_, at all events) to take that ridiculous--hum--penance
_too_ literally. We are _travelling_ together, and I imagine that is enough
for Miss PRENDERGAST.

_Podb._ It's enough for _me_--especially when you make yourself so doosid
amiable as this. You needn't alarm yourself--you won't have any more of my
company than I can help; only I _must_ say, for two fellows who came out to
do a tour _together_, it's-- [_Walks away, grumbling._

_Later. The band has finished playing;_ Miss TROTTER _is on the bench with_
CULCHARD.

_Miss T._ And you mean to tell me you've never met anybody since you even
cared to converse with?

_Culch._ (_diplomatically_). Does that strike you as so very incredible?

_Miss T._ Well, it strikes me as just a _little_ too thin. I judged you'd
go away, and forget I ever existed.

[Illustration: "Ah, how little you know me!"]

_Culch._ (_with tender reproach_). How little you know me! I may not be
an--er--demonstrative man, my--er--feelings are not easily roused, but,
once roused, well--(_wounded_)--I think I may claim to possess an ordinary
degree of constancy!

_Miss T._ Well, I'm sure I _ought_ to feel it a vurry high compliment to
have you going round grieving all this time on _my_ account.

_Culch._ Grieving! Ah, if I could only _tell_ you what I went through!
(_Decides, on reflection, that the less he says about this the better._)
But all that is past. And now may I not expect a more definite answer to
the question I asked at Bingen? Your reply then was--well, a little
ambiguous.

_Miss T._ I guess it's got to be just about as ambiguous now--there don't
seem anything I _can_ say. There's times when I feel as if it might be sort
of elevating and improving to have you shining around; and there's other
times when I suspect that, if it went on for any considerable period,
likely I'd weaken. I'm not just sure. And I can't ever make myself believe
but what you're disapproving of me, inside of you, most all the time!

_Culch._ Pray dismiss such--er--morbid misgivings, dear Miss TROTTER. Show
that you do so by accepting me as your guide and companion through life!

_Miss T._ My! but that sounds like a proposal?

_Culch._ I intended it to bear that--er--construction. It _is_ a
proposal--made after the fullest reflection.

_Miss T._ I'm ever so obliged. But we don't fix things quite that way in my
country. We want to feel pretty sure, first, we shann't get left. And it
don't seem to me as if I'd had opportunities enough of studying your
leading characteristics. I'll have to study them some more before I know
whereabouts I am; and I want you to understand that I'm not going to commit
myself to anything at present. That mayn't be sentiment, but I guess it's
common-sense, anyway. And all _you_'ve got to do is, just to keep around,
and kind of impress me with a conviction that you're the vurry brightest
and best man in the entire universe, and I don't believe you'll find much
difficulty about _that_. And now I guess we'll go into _table d'hôte_--I'm
just as _ravenous_!

_Culch._ (_to himself, as he follows her_). Really, this is not much better
than RUSKIN, after all. But I don't despair. That last remark was
distinctly encouraging!

SCENE--_A large Salle à Manger, decorated in the Pompeian style. Table
d'hôte has begun._ CULCHARD _is seated between_ Miss TROTTER _and a large
and conversational stranger. Opposite are three empty chairs._

_Culchard's Neighbour_. Then you're going on to Venice? Well, you take _my_
advice. When you get there, you ask for tunny. Don't forget--_tunny_!

_Culch._ (_who wants to talk to_ Miss T.) Tunny? Thank you. I--er--will
certainly remember his name, if I require a guide.

_His N._ A guide? No, no--tunny's a _fish_, Sir, a coarse red fish, with
flesh like a raw beefsteak.

_Culch._ Is that so? Then I will make a point of asking for it--if I want
raw beefsteak. [_Attempts to turn to_ Miss T.

_His N._ That's what _I_ did when I was at Venice. I sent for the Manager.
He came. I said to him. "Look here, I'm an Englishman. My name's BELLERBY.
(CULCHARD _bows in patient boredom._) I've heard of your Venetian tunny. I
wish to taste it. _Bring_ me some!"

_Culch._ (_crushingly_). A most excellent method of obtaining it, no doubt.
(_To_ Waiter.) _Numéro vingt-sept, demi bouteille de Chianti, et siphon!_

_His N._ You don't wait till I've _done_, Sir! I _didn't_ obtain it--not at
first. The man made excuses. I was prepared for _that_. I told him plainly,
"I know what _you_'re thinking--it's a cheap fish, and you fancy I'm
ordering it out of economy!"

_Culch._ (_raising his eyebrows for_ Miss T.'s _benefit_). Of course, he
naturally _would_ think so. And _that_ is how you got your tunny? I see.
[Mr. BELLERBY _stares at him suspiciously, and decides to suppress the
remainder of his tunny._

_Miss T._ This hotel seems to be thinning some. We've three ghosts right in
front of us this evening.

_Culch._ (_turning with effusion_). So we have! My friend is one, and he'll
be here presently, but I much prefer myself to see every seat occupied.
There is something so depressing about a vacant chair, don't you think?

_Miss T._ It's calculated to put one in mind of _Macbeth's_ little
dinner-party, certainly. But you can cheer up, Mr. CULCHARD, here comes a
couple of belated _Banquos._ My gracious; I _do_ like that girl's face--she
has such a perfectly lovely expression, and looks real superior too!

_Culch._ (_who has just dropped his glasses into his soup_). I--ah--which
lady are you referring too? (_He cleans and adjusts his glasses--to
discover that he is face to face with_ Miss HYPATIA PRENDERGAST.) Oh ...
I--I see--precisely, quite so! (_He turns to_ BELLERBY _to cover his
confusion and avoid meeting_ Miss PRENDERGAST'S _eye_.) I _beg_ your
pardon, you were describing how you caught a tunny? Pray continue.

_Mr. Bellerby_ (_stiffly_). Excuse me, I don't seem fortunate enough to
have secured your undivided attention.

_Culch._ (_with intense interest_). Quite the contrary, I assure you! You
were saying you always ordered it out of economy?

_Mr. B._ Pardon _me_--I was saying nothing of the sort. I was saying that I
told the Manager I knew that was why he _thought_ I ordered it--a rather
different thing! "You're quite wrong," I said. "You may pay
twopence-halfpenny a pound for it, and charge me half-a-crown, if you like,
but I mean to _taste_ that tunny!" I was determined not to be done out of
my tunny, Sir!

_Culch._ (_breathlessly_). And what did the tunny--I mean the Manager--say
to _that_?

_Mr. B._ Oh, made more difficulties--it wasn't to be got, and so on. At
last I said to him (very quietly, but he saw I was in earnest), "Now I tell
you what it _is_--I'm going to _have_ that tunny, and, if you refuse to
give it me,--well, I shall just send my courier _out_ for it, that's all!"
So, with, _that_, they brought me some--and anything more delicious I never
tasted in all my life!

_Culch._ (_to himself_). If I can only keep him on at this tunny!
(_Aloud._) And--er--what _does_ it taste like exactly, now?

_Mr. B._ (_pregnantly_), You _order_ it, Sir--_insist_ on having it. Then
you'll _know_ what it tastes like! [_He devotes himself to his soup._

_Culch._ (_with his eyes lowered--to himself_). I _must_ look up in another
minute--and then! [_He shivers._

       *       *       *       *       *

"TYPICAL DEVELOPMENTS."

One of our very occasional contributors, whose valuable time is mainly
occupied by the composition of successful novels, sends us the following,
written by his type-writer. From this specimen it will be gathered what a
real economy in correcting letter-press a type-writer must be.

[Illustration]

    Dear Editor

    I send you my new book to reed and if you likit pleaase give me a
    legup. The story of my other book was anti-turkish but has not yet been
    probited in Constanple though it has reachd its tetenth edition, at
    least the ninth is neraly all shrubshcribed bedfore it isrereaddy. If
    my pullisher is not sasfide oughtbe. Never use pen now only typwritr so
    much quickerin tellgible convenent an leshble

      Yours
      S SMUGGYNS

It strikes us that either the machine stammers, or that it was, at the time
of writing, somewhat the worse for liquor, or that it is a very truthfully
phonetic-writing but somewhat indiscreet amanuensis. At the same time
herewith and hereby every success to our friend SMUGGYNS'S new book.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARD LINES FOR HIM.--When the first stone of a new theatre in Cranbourne
Street was laid the other day by some Magnates of the Theatrical
Profession--beg pardon, "_the_ Profession," we should have said--Mrs.
BANCROFT made a telling impromptu speech, and then Mr. YARDLEY, ancient
Cricketer and Modern Dramatist, was hit on the head--accidentally, of
course--by the bottle which is in use on these occasions. "Very YARDLEY
treated," observed Sir DRURIOLANUS, in his happiest vein. Not the first
literary gent who, according to the ancient slang of the Tom-and-Jerry
period, has been "cut" by ill-use of the bottle. But the unfortunate
author's sorrows did not end with this sad blow, as, very soon afterwards,
his dear friends the Critics, with profuse apologies for being compelled to
handle him so severely, were down upon him for his new version of a French
piece, entitled _The Planter_. So the logical sequence of events was, that
first a blow was planted, and then appeared _The Planter_.

       *       *       *       *       *

ECCLESIASTICAL LAYMAN.--At a meeting in Rome, the "Duke di SERMONETA" took
the chair. If ever there were a staunch Churchman, this by his name,
rendered in English as "Sermon-devourer," should be he.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR OWN FINANCIAL COLUMN.

_Telegraphic Address_--"_Croesus, E.C._"

[Illustration]

Sir,--Let me first express my financial acknowledgments to the teeming
millions who have honoured me, and benefited themselves by seeking my
advice since my first letter appeared last week. Communications containing
cheques, postal orders, and stamps, have poured in upon me in one unceasing
torrent. The consignors have, in every case, been good enough to say that
they handed all they possessed over to me, in the full confidence that I
would invest the proceeds to the best advantage in some of the countless
undertakings in which I wield a paramount influence. Their trust is fully
deserved.

Investors will remember that, in the course of the last German Expedition
to Central Africa, a tract of country, rich in every mineral deposit, and
admirably fitted for the operations of husbandry, was discovered in lat.
42°, long. 65°. The Germans at that time had not a single handkerchief
left, and were unable, therefore to hoist the German flag over the palace
of the native king, GUL-GULL. Private information of this was conveyed to
me. I at once fitted out an Expedition _at my own expense_, placed myself
at the head of it, and after terrible hardships, in the course of which no
less than two hundred of my comrades either succumbed outright to the bite
of the poisonous _contango_ fly, or had to be mercifully dispatched by the
hammer (a painless native form of death), in order to end their tortures, I
succeeded in reaching the capital, where I was hospitably received by the
king. After a negotiation of three weeks, His Majesty agreed, in the
kindest and most affable manner, to concede to me his whole country
together with all its revenues, minerals, royalties, timber, water-power,
lakes, farm-houses, stock and manor-houses, the whole beautifully situated
in the heart of a first-class sporting country, within easy reach of ten
packs of hounds; the old residential palace replete with every modern
comfort, and admirably adapted for the purposes of a gentleman desiring to
set up in the business of kingship. It matters not what I had to pay for
this. The secret is my own, and shall go to Westminster Abbey with me. The
point is, that with the funds entrusted to me, I have formed the
Cent-per-Central African Exploration and Investment Syndicate, and have
allotted shares to all those whose contributions have come to hand. As to
profit, I have calculated it on the strictest actuarial principles, and
find it cannot be less than £100 for every £100 invested. This may seem
small, but in these matters moderation is the soul of business. I shall
have more to say on this subject next week.

_Answers to Correspondents_.

DISMAL JEMMY.--Why do you suggest that the motto of my new company should
be, "_Stealer et fraudax_"? Is it a Latin joke? If so, don't write to me
any more. Those who deal with _me_ must be British to the backbone.

ANXIOUS.--You can't do better than send me those £50,000. I guarantee
secrecy and quick returns. The Eyeoyu Land Trust is best for your purposes
(Pref. deb. 492; stk. 18. 2. 3). Send money at once to CROESUS, E.C. Delay
might be fatal.

CAPITALIST.--No doubt, as you say, Consols are Consols; but take my advice
and don't give GOSCHEN your money. Why not try the _United Bladder Mortgage
Company_? Bladders are bound to go up. They were floated at 10 and are now
at 96. _Verb. sap._ No; £20,000 would not be too much.

"POTTER."--Something good may he done in Land Rails, if you can get near
enough. Have a shot at them by all means.

"PRACTICAL JOKER."--Quite right. Sell them.

"ANXIOUS INQUIRER" wishes to be informed what is the difference between
Preferred and Deferred. If he will tell us how much he expects to receive
in each case, the mere calculation of the difference will be an easy
matter; but to receive it is quite another affair. If he wishes to know the
"distinction" between these two classes of "securities," it may be summed
up in the answer to the question, "Will you have it now, or wait till you
get it?"

"A PUZZLED ONE."--Sell everything.

"MEET ME BY MIDNIGHT."--Yes. A Loan.

"LAMBKIN."--Part with No. 2, &c., but take care of No. 1.

"INSIDER."--Get out.

"TOTTIE TOTTS."--Here for private consultation from 5 to 7 P.M.

"RICHARD."--_Buy_ Bizzy B's, _Sell_ Early P's, and Spoiled Fives. _Buy_
Jingoes.

"BRUNO."--"Bear" your burdens.

"ADA WITH THE GOLDENHAIR."--Send photo at once. Cannot advise until we know
your figure.

  "CROESUS,
  E.C."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.

_Miss Fitzogre_. "WELL, GOOD-BYE, PERCIVAL, AND BE A GOOD BOY!"

_Percival (a very good boy, who has just been specially warned not to make
personal remarks about People in their presence_). "GOOD-BYE. I'LL NOT TELL
NURSE WHAT I THINK OF YOUR NOSE TILL YOU'RE GONE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A JUBILEE GREETING!

(_Set to a Song from Sir Walter Scott._)

NOVEMBER 9, 1891.

_Mr. Punch (for self and everybody) loquitur_:--

  My Prince, 'tis for our coming King
    We all lift glass in hand;
  For him that loud hurrahs do ring
    To-day all round the land,
                  My Prince,
    All round a loyal land!

  Let sycophantish slave kotoo;
    You love not such display;
  Let courtiers cringe and creatures "boo."
    'Tis not our English way,
                  My Prince,
    'Tis not our English way.

  As FLORA to Prince CHARLIE bent
    It is no shame to bow;
  And you're a man to be content
    With man's respect, I trow,
                  My Prince,
    With man's respect, I trow.

  For Fifty Years we've known you, Sir,
    And liked you. Love is free!
  That's why the land is all astir,
    To hail your Jubilee,
                  My Prince,
    To hail your Jubilee.

  In Forty-Six _Punch_ pictured you,
    "A Sailor every inch,"[A]
  Toasting "Mamma!" in a stiff brew
    Without a sign of flinch,
                  My Prince,
    Without one sign of flinch.

  In Seventy-One he stood beside
    Your door in sad "Suspense."[B]
  We saw the turn in that dark tide
    With thankfulness intense,
                  My Prince,
    With gratitude intense.

  From stage to stage your course he's marked
    Abroad as eke at home;
  Where'er you've travelled, toiled, skylarked;
    And now mid-age has come,
                  My Prince,
    And now mid-age has come.

  Come as it comes to all. Most true!
    But, "let the galled jade wince,"
  Still _Punch's_ pencil pictures you
    As every inch a Prince,
                  My Prince,
    Yes, every inch a Prince!

  And now your Jubilee we greet,
    With hearty English joy,
  Who, as those Fifty Years did fleet,
    Have watched you, man and boy,
                  My Prince,
    Have watched you, man and boy.

  When all is done that Prince can do,
    All is _not_ done in vain.
  That's why we drink Good Health to you
    Again and eke again,
                  My Prince,
    Again and eke again!

  _Punch_ turns him round and right about,
    And leads the British roar
  Which rises in one loyal shout,
    "Health to the Prince once more!
                  My Prince,
    Health to him evermore!"

  And health to her, the unfading flower
    From Denmark, o'er the foam.
  _Ad multos annos_, grace, and power,
    Love, and a Happy Home,
                  My Prince,
    Love, and a Happy Home!

  Now youth has gone, and manhood come,
    Your Jubilee we keep,
  Good-will shall strike detraction dumb,
    And sound from deep to deep,
                  My Prince,
    From white-cliff'd deep to deep!

[Footnote A: See Cartoon, "Every Inch a Sailor," p. 129, Vol. XI., Sept.
26, 1846.]

[Footnote B: See Cartoon. "Suspense," p. 263, Vol. LXI., Dec. 23, 1871.]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN APPARENTLY HARD CASE.--Miss Print is responsible for a great deal. The
other day a tender-hearted person read in a daily paper, that a stranger
"arriving in Paris, did not even know where to go and die." How sad! But
the compositor had only omitted the "n" from the last word of the sentence.
So it wasn't so bad after all, though for the stranger bad enough.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Music's the Food."--At the Savoy Hotel the band of Herr WURMS is
advertised to perform during dinner. The name of the dinner might follow
suit, and be entitled "The Diet of Wurms, for Gentle and Simple." Of course
the band of Herr WURMS is an attraction; "Wurms for bait," eh?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A JUBILEE GREETING!

MR. PUNCH (_for self and everybody_). "HEARTY CONGRATULATIONS, SIR!--KNOWN
YOU FIFTY YEARS, AND LIKE YOU BETTER THAN EVER!!"]


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A KINDLY VIEW OF IT.

_First Rustic_ (_to Second Ditto_). "OH, I SAY! AIN'T HE FOND OF HIS
HORSE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IO TRIUMPHE!

OR, GREEK FOR HEIFER!

(_By an Old Boy._)

[Illustration]

  Thee, Camus, reverend renown
    Thy grateful votaries seek,
  Foil'd are the Vandals who'd "send down"
    The Genius of Greek.

  For Culture's jewell'd master-key
    They cupboard pick-locks tend,
  And in the cult of Mammon see
    Learning's true aim and end;

  Pit shallow youth's impatient fuss
    Against the grit of CATO,
  Set IBSEN up for ÆSCHYLUS,
    And OLLENDORFF for PLATO;

  For songs august of heroes sung,
    And epic hosts embattled,
  Enforce some pidgin-Latin tongue
    By every waiter prattled;

  For nymphs, where o'er the fragrant pines
    A sea-bright sun uprises,
  Their fancy plays round primmest lines
    Of prigs receiving prizes.

  From Sir JOHN CHEKE to Dr. JEBB,
    From CALVERLEY to MILTON,
  Clear spirits burst the Sophist-web,
    And rent the rook they built on.

  WELLDON is falsely named in this,
    For sure, in slighting Greek, he
  Will Learning's final blessing miss,
    Her [Greek: kalôs pepoiêke].

  What though the urchin deem it "rot"
    (Such hasty views we stoop'd to,
  Not seeing how on earth they got
    _Tetummenos_ from _Tupto_)

  Still let us learn, not beastly facts,
    The field of any booby,
  But how thought acts and interacts,
    And contraries can true be.

  Though on oblivion's barren shores
    He give it quick sepulture,
  Still through reluctant passman's pores
    Instil the dew of culture.

  Still give us of the rills divine
    That flow from haunted Helicon,
  Nor rend thyself to feed the swine,
    Like a perverted Pelican.

  Keep far the time when every bee
    That booms in every bonnet,
  Shall find a chair of Apiary,
    And drone long lectures on it.

  Still the large light and sweetness seek
    Of KEATS'S raptured vision,
  (Or KEATE'S)--till Greek at last meets Greek
    In brotherhood Elysian.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW TREASURE FOR. THE TREASURER OF BARTHOLOMEW'S.--_Mr. Punch_, G.P.E.,
General President of Everything, begs to congratulate Professor HUBERT
HERKOMER, R.A.M.A., on his admirable portrait of Sir SYDNEY HEDLEY, and
now, not only HEDLEY, but Full-Lengthly WATERLOW, Bart., of "Bart's," which
H.R.H. correctly described as "a very fine work of Art, painted by one of
our most eminent artists." Such approbation of Sir HUBERT HERKOMER is
praise indeed! _Mr. Punch_, G.P.E., prefixes the "Sir" prophetically. For
the present it may be taken as the last syllable, detached, of "Profes-sir"

       *       *       *       *       *

"WELLS, I NEVER!"--"Mr. WELLS," says the _Times_ Correspondent, "has made
250,000 francs" (up to now), and "last year he made £20,000." Talk of the
waters at various drinking or health-resorts abroad, why, their fame is as
nothing compared with the unprecedented success of the WELLS of Monte
Carlo. How the other chaps who lose must be like LEECH'S old gent "a
cussin' and a swearin' like hanythink." So the two extremes at Monte Carlo
may be expressed by the name of a well-known shopkeeping London firm,
i.e., SWEARS AND WELLS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON TOUR. MR. PUNCH AT THE POTTERIES.]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTHING LIKE LABOR.

(_A Pleasant Prospect suggested by the evidence taken before the Royal
Commission_.)

And so the Un-employed rose from the ditch in which he had passed the
night, and made for the town. It was early morning, and he thought he could
possibly get something to do at the baker's.

"Want to work?" cried the foreman. "Why, my good fellow, it is all over for
the next two days. The trade only allows four hours, so we begin at eight
on one night, and carry it on until four on the following morning. People
get their loaves a little stale, but old bread is said to be good for the
digestion!"

So the Unemployed went on until he came to a half-built house. The workmen
had left, but there was still a watchman on the premises.

"Want to work! Why _what_ are you thinking about! Why, our trade only
allows two hours a day, so we build a house by laying foundation-stones. It
is rather slow, but very sure."

So the starving man continued his journey. He was unsuccessful at every
trade centre. One industry allowed its members to work only for three hours
a day, another two, a third four, and so on. There was only one exception
to the rule, and this (so the doctor thinks) was caused by necessity. The
undertakers were fully employed twelve hours out of the twenty-four. Even
the public-houses were closed at noon. The workhouses and casual wards were
never empty.

But being of a sanguine temperament, the Unemployed cheered his drooping
spirits by murmuring, "Better luck to-morrow!" Then he retired to his
rather damp quarters in the country ditch!

       *       *       *       *       *

Literary Intelligence.

_Airy opening of article by_ Mr. GINLEY SCORCHSAM, _a rising young author_.
"Asked by Editor of _Magazin des Louvres_ to let him have a paper on Art as
Applied to Drapery----"

_Note by the Agonised Editor_ (_who has been struggling with MS. for
several hours_). "And he _did_ let me have it, with a vengeance!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SCENE AT THE "LUCULLUS."

_Mrs. Blunderby_. "Now, MY DEAR MONTY, LET ME ORDER THE LUNCHEON
AR-LA-FRAINGSY. GASSONG! I WISH TO BEGIN--AS WE ALWAYS DO IN PARIS, MY
DEARS--WITH SOME _CHEF-D'OEUVRES_--YOU UNDERSTAND--SOME _CHEF-D'OEUVRES."_

[_Emile, the Waiter, is in despair. It occurs to him however, presently that
the Lady probably means "Hors d'oeuvres," and acts accordingly_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LIGHT CONDUCT IN HEAVENLY BODIES.

[Illustration]

DEAR MR. EDITOR,

What on earth, or rather what in the starry Heavens' name is the meaning of
this heading to a paragraph in the _Times_ of Tuesday, Nov. 3:--

    "APPARENT DUPLICITY OF JUPITER'S SATELLITE No. 1."

Except that the stars are given to wink, I have never before heard of the
Heavenly Bodies being accused, of immorality. It is true that the duplicity
is said to be only "apparent" or alleged, but this is doubtless due to the
precaution of the scientist to escape an action for libel. Flatterers have
often been accused of this vice, and Satellites are not much better. A
"Star" on the stage might perhaps thus acknowledge the presence of a friend
and admirer in the Stalls or in the charmed Circle. But for a Heavenly Body
to be guilty of duplicity, and above all for a "Number One" Heavenly Body,
is too much. No more will the simple lines

    "Twinkle, twinkle, little Star!"

be true. No; if "Jupiter's Satellite No. 1" takes to such light conduct,
then shall we, have to read

    "Wink, O wink, you little Star!"

Henceforth let astronomers be very careful what observations they make. To
what a state of things are we coming, when at night all the sublunary world
is nodding, and the Stars above are winking. If there's duplicity in a
Satellite of Jupiter, how about Jupiter itself? Can we henceforth put any
trust in the Planets? Are they in league with deceitful soothsayers,
astrologers, and fortune-tellers? I cannot further pursue the painful
subject. We owe a debt of gratitude to the _Times_ for exposing duplicity
in the highest places. Imagine treachery in Aurora Borealis! What an awful
flirt she would be!! How she'd "wink the other eye!"

Yours,
AN ASTRONOMER LOYAL.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM MASHONALAND.--Inspired by the success of ARTHUR B., of DE GORSTIBUS
NON DISPUTANDUM, and of Sir KETTLE-DRUMMOND WOLFF, our GRANDOLPH meditates
a surprise return to his own native land and to Parliamentary life. He
announces his intention of changing his name, and will call himself "Lord
NIL DESPERANDUM CHURCHILL." Hail to the modern Coeur-de-Lion!"

       *       *       *       *       *

FINAL.--The _Daily Chronicle_ says it does not regard Mr. GOSCHEN as one of
the Puritans of finance. Well, no, perhaps, GEORGE JOACHIM'S finance--like
his manner--is rather _Cavalier_!

       *       *       *       *       *

ONLY FANCY!

[Illustration: Farmer Atkinson.]

MR. FARMER-ATKINSON, M.P., attending the American Methodist Conference, has
been supplying the United States with interesting illustrations of House of
Commons manners. Incidentally he observed that Primitive Methodists,
members of which body were largely represented in his audience, are
"impostors." This led to some misunderstanding, and Mr. FARMER-ATKINSON,
M.P., found it necessary to explain that he had used the term "simply in a
Parliamentary sense." We learn by special Zadkiel telegram that, on
emerging from the Hall after the meeting, the Rev. HERCULES EBENEZER
(Omaha), bringing down his clenched fist on the crown of the hat of Mr.
FARMER-ATKINSON, M.P., altered its situation in a direction that
temporarily obscured the vision of the Hon. Member.

"What do you mean?" inquired Mr. FARMER-ATKINSON, M.P., struggling out of
the wreck of his hat.

"I mean it in a purely Pickwickian sense," said the Rev. HERCULES EBENEZER
(Omaha), with a seraphic smile that disarmed controversy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The GERMAN EMPEROR has lately rearranged his scheme of work for weekdays.
From six A.M. to eight A.M. he gives lectures on Strategy and Tactics to
Generals over forty years old. From eight to ten he instructs the chief
actors, musicians and painters of Berlin in the principles of their
respective arts. The hours from ten to twelve he devotes to the compilation
of his Memoirs in fifty-four volumes. A limited edition of large-paper
copies is to be issued. From twelve to four P.M. he reviews regiments,
cashiers colonels, captures fortresses, carries his own dispatches to
himself, and makes speeches of varying length to all who will listen to
him. Any professional reporter found taking accurate notes of His Majesty's
words is immediately blown from a Krupp gun with the new smokeless powder.
From four to eight he tries on uniforms, dismisses Ministers and officials,
dictates state-papers to General CAPRIVI, and composes his history of "How
I pricked the Bismarck Bubble." From eight to eleven P.M. His Majesty
teaches schoolmasters how to teach, wives how to attend to their families,
bankers how to carry on their business, and cooks how to prepare dinners.
The rest of the day he devotes to himself. On Thursday next His Majesty
leaves Berlin on his tenth visit to the European Courts.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no truth in the report that the Lord CHANCELLOR is arranging a
Christmas party, to which shall be invited all the members and connections
of his family for whom he has found places during his term of office. It is
well known that the accommodation at Lord HALSBURY's town residence is
comparatively limited.

       *       *       *       *       *

We regret to hear that Mr. JOHN O'CONNOR, M.P. (known in the House of
Commons as "Long JOHN"), has decided to retire from political life. His
personal experience during the Cork Election has convinced him that no man
over 5 ft. 8 in. can safely take part in active politics.

"Bricks, dead cats, sections of chimney-pots, which flew harmless over the
heads of the crowd, invariably struck me," said Mr. O'CONNOR, toying with
the bandage over his left eyebrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is quite true, as reported in the newspapers, that Dr. GUTTERIDGE was
not present when the final result of the polling in the Strand was made
known, and that it was explained to the reporter he had been "called out to
see a patient." The suggestion that the undertaking of this hopeless
contest was designed solely to lead up to this incident, is one worthy only
of the diseased imagination of a professional rival, who has no patients to
call him out--even from Church.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is stated (and has been denied) that Herr VON DER BLOWITZOWN-TROMP is
about to retire from his supervision of universal affairs exercised through
the Special Paris Wire of a contemporary. We are glad to learn that this
intention does not in any case imply absolute disappearance from the
European Stage. It is no secret in diplomatic circles that the Herr has
been approached on the question of his ascending the throne of Bulgaria.
His keen insight into European politics has convinced him that this
arrangement would afford a settlement of an ever-ruffled question. He has,
we understand, stipulated that the Principality shall be raised to the
status of a Kingdom. "I have," he said to the Emissary of the Powers who
approached him on the subject, "been so long accustomed to associate with
Crowned Heads, that in a Principality I should feel like a fish out of
water."

With his usual considerateness, Herr VON DER BLOWITZOWN-TROMP has
recognised the inconvenience that would be imposed on his subjects, if, in
daily use, they were obliged to refer to him by his full title. He will,
therefore, deign to be known on coins, postage-stamps, and in semi-official
communications, as TROMP THE FIRST.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no truth in the report that, on behalf of Mr. JOHN MORLEY, Sir
WILLIAM HARCOURT waited upon Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, and asked him to name a
friend; that the Right Hon. Gentleman "mentioned" Mr. JESSE COLLINGS; and
that the two seconds have arranged a meeting at Boulogne. The idle rumour
doubtless arose out of the fact that an acrimonious correspondence between
the two former friends has been carried on in the columns of the _Times_.

       *       *       *       *       *

According to the newspaper reports, during the ceremony of acceptance by
the Prince of WALES, as President of Bartholomew's Hospital, of "the
portrait of Sir SYDNEY WATERLOW, the Treasurer," the portrait "occupied a
prominent position on the platform, and the Hon. Baronet sat immediately in
front of it." We learn that this arrangement led to some misunderstanding,
people, on entering, not at first knowing which was the portrait, and which
was Sir SYDNEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

ECHOES FROM THE LABOUR COMMISSION.

_First Voice._ I hear that you wish to give your evidence before this
Commission?

_Second Voice._ Certainly, that is my desire. I am here to speak in the
name of my fellow-labourers, and----

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do. You are in favour of Trade Unions?

_Second V._ I am. I feel that when rich and poor meet in mighty conflict,
there is only--

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do. And you believe that strikes are
beneficial?

_Second V._ I do consider them beneficial, most beneficial. I feel that
labour must have its rights, and that the white dove of liberty has only
to--

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do. And you are in favour of
arbitration?

_Second V._ No, I am not. For when DIVES meets the beggars, then the cry of
labour rises on the stilly night, and--

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do. And may I ask to what trade you
belong?

_Second V._ I belong to none. Every thinking and right-minded man should
care for his fellows as himself. Like an eagle on a snow-capped mountain,
he should--

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do. Then may we ask, if you belong to
no trade, what is your occupation?

_Second V._ My occupation is to talk to--

_First V._ Yes, thank you, that will do!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Paddy Rewski, the Pianist, makes his bow, and escapes to
America from an enthusiastic audience, who might have torn him into musical
pieces at St. James's Hall.]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE TO PROBABLE IRISH OBJECTORS ON BOTH SIDES.--The Novel that _Mr.
Punch_ so recently praised, entitled _Tim_, is neither Irish nor political.
Both sides can buy and enjoy it. A Parnellite author is thinking of
adapting DICKENS, and bringing out a new version of an old_ Christmas book,
to be entitled _Tiny Tim._

       *       *       *       *       *

OLD TIMES REVIVED.--The New Lord Mayor. Gracious EVANS!! "And," asks a
middle-aged Correspondent, "during this Mayoralty will the Munching House
be known as EVANS'S?"

       *       *       *       *       *

--> NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed
Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be
returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.





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